The Spark Transplant
by Ayngel
Summary: When Vortex is fatally injured in a shooting accident and Hook can't fix him, a certain Autobot medic is called in on account of his 'spark expertise.' Combaticon/Constructicon/Protectobot capers. Crack, fluff, angst, smex and many pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**~~The Spark Transplant~~**

**By Ayngel**

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><p><strong>*Warnings:* <strong>Some light non-sticky smut in this chapter. Later, heavier smex of the sticky, p&p and spark variety. Medical procedures and near death.

_**Disclaimer:** Dream though I might, I still don't own Trasnsformers or make any money from this._

**Continuity:** G1

**Plot:** When Vortex suffers an irrepairable injury to the spark and Hook can't fix him, a spark expert is called in from the Autobot ranks.

**Characters:** Hook and all the Constructicons, First Aid and the Protectobots, The Combaticons.

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong> This story first appeared as two rough segments in TF_Speedwriting on Livejournal. I have put the segments together, and have changed them somewhat. It is now the first chapter of a longer story.

There'll be plenty of angst and drama in this, as well as smut of the sticky, p&p and spark varieties. There's quite a few pairings. The First Aid/Hook ex sparkbond takes a lead, but also in this is (from time to time) are Hook and Scrapper, Scrapper and Grapple, Scavenger and Swindle, First Aid and Hotspot, Vortex and Onslaught, Vortex and First Aid. I hope this keeps a whole range of people happy!

The story is set at the end of Season 3, after B.O.T. and there are a few premises. Firstly, Swindle has gone through a hard time after the 'spare parts' incident – and he is out of favour for other reasons: namely their belief that he turned them when they landed in the Box. Secondly, the Protectobots were not created on Earth, but were pre-existing separate mechs who were brought together – like the Combaticons. This makes First Aid, Hotspot and Groove older and wiser than in some other fics – although Blades and Streetwise are youngsters.

Other less important background facts include that Soundwave and Bombshell, not Hook, were put in charge of reprogramming Bruticus' loyalty (this put Constructicon medic's nose somewhat out of joint) and that the Constructicons and Combaticons were ordered to reside on an island with the Stunticons, and whilst the latter two gestalts trained frequently and formed Bruticus and Menosaur, the Constructicons were given the humbling task of building the bases. Another factor which didn't go down too well.

Finally, this isn't a crossover at all, but I confess to being thoroughly inspired by House MD when it comes to Hook's character. There are similarities between those two which it's impossible to ignore!

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><p><strong>~~Chapter 1~~<strong>

"Mmmnnn …." murmured Scrapper. "Kiss me again. We haven't done this for far too long. Just one overload before we go to the others ..."

Hook was in total agreement. Accordingly he obliged, enthusiastically, allowing his energy field to release slowly over his team mate. Scrapper shivered delightedly, and kissed him deeper, wrapping his arms around Hook's chassis. But that was as far as they got. Both of their comms erupted in a series of loud crackles.

"Uh – we got an incoming, Hook!" said Bonecrusher. "Shooting incident, Combaticon - Vortex. He's got a bullet in his chest. Onslaught's pretty worked up. Says it's bad. Says he's losing consciousness!"

Hook felt Scrapper's disappointment, looked into the desire filled optics. Heat radiated from the other Constructicon, as his energy field crackled with arousal. Hook's own field simmered. But Decepticon loyalty and functional programming warred with need, compelling the medic to take an interest in Bonecrusher's transmission, to be concerned, to prepare to fix his injured faction colleague.

Even if it was a Combaticon, one of that dysfunctional rabble who curried favours with Megatron to try and make up for the past.

He pulled back. "Duty calls," he said. "Looks like we'll have to take a rain check."

He went to get up. But Scrapper caught hold of his hand, pulling him back. "The combat exercise was in the south canyon," he said. "It'll take them a while to get here." His optics were large and fluid. "Just one? Please … Hook …."

The medic relented. It wasn't really that hard. "Just one," he said. "Let's see how good we still are at quickies …."

…..

As Hook and Scrapper entered the common room, there were mumblings and sounds of disappointment among the assembled Constructicons. "So much for you two coming in here to do what we were gonna do!" growled Bonecrusher. "Trust a Combaticon to stuff things up!"

"Yeah!" gabbled Mixmaster. "The first t-t-team interface we've had in ages! And just when I'd cooked up a sp-p-p special brew to appreciate it, too!"

Exclamations of: _"Yeah …"_ and "_Selfish afts …"_ followed, and Scavenger looked especially cross. He pouted. "That copter's a _real _aft!" he said. "Why don't we just not bother? We can say we never got the comm!" There were more murmurs of agreement.

But Scrapper regarded them sternly. "I know the Combaticons are not our favourite mechs," he said, "But you all know the drill. Hook is the Decepticon medic. His job is to fix broken Decepticons. We need to help, not hinder him. Besides, if we all pull together, we can soon get this over and done with!"

Hook regarded them, warming inside when Scrapper spoke. This was due in part to the overload he'd had not two breems ago. But Scrapper's unwavering loyalty and support had never failed to touch the medic in ways which others, mindful of his aloof and arrogant nature, would have found hard to believe. All the same, he had to admit he could see merit in Scavenger's suggestion.

But duty tugged again. Besides - Hook reminded himself - the copter was hardly the most complicated mechanism. Scrapper was quite correct. If Hook played this right, they'd be back to their 'agenda' in no time. Maybe he could even remove this bullet in _record_ time.

And now, excitement mingled with duty – for that was a most interesting prospect. As always, Hook's irresistible temptation to prove himself to all – and most of all to himself – arose with a vengeance. When it came to _things medical,_ Hook was simply the best. And – as always - he would prove it.

"Indeed, we have a job to do," he said. "I should remind us all that we're due for a practise as medical team. Besides …" his optics glinted, "I'm sure a satisfactory performance in fixing Vortex will heighten the enjoyment of – _other_ performances later. Look at this as - _a chance to_ _get closer!"_

This view of the world seemed to please Hook's fellow Constructicons. Some enthusiasm now became evident. Moving to a large screen on one wall, Hook drew out a cable and plugged it a square shaped machine nearby. He flicked a switch, and a three dimensional replication of the Decepticon copter appeared in front of a large white screen.

The others exclaimed in surprise. But Hook chuckled. "I like to keep my potential patients' schematics handy for times like these!" the medic said.

His tone became 'professional.' "Now - Vortex is not a difficult subject!" he informed them. "Heliformer model, Icthean adaptation. Military root mode configurations and straightforward transformation sequences …."

He looked at the others. "Easy to pick things out of and stick back together, relatively speaking. I doubt that one bullet will take up much of our time. Now - since this is to be a team effort, let's see how 'on the ball' you all are. Any - _issues_- of which I should be aware?"

There was a low murmuring. "Yeah! He's a stroppy f-f-fragger!" Mixmaster piped up. "Dunno that I trust the 'unconsciousness' p-p-part. Better get some of my extra special knockout juice together, _heheheh!"_

"Good point!" Hook nodded. "Although we'll keep his neural functions suppressed if necessary." Bonecrusher?"

"He's strong, too!" growled the bulldozer. "Better see we got proper restraint gear handy."

"Excellent!' said Hook. "That's your department then, Bonecrusher. Whatever you think is best."

"He gets claustrophobia," Scavenger piped up. "Swindle told me. It's - a side effect of that personality separation thing, you know – the mind prison."

A ripple went through the others and they muttered, disapprovingly. "A bad business, that!" Bonecrusher growled.

"Yeah! And something we don't wanna end up in, do we?" Longhaul observed. "We'd better fix the fragger!"

Hook chuckled. "I hardly think that sort of confinement is likely. Despite recent events I like to think we still enjoy _some _popularity with Megatron. But let's stick to the point. Your suggestions are all sensible. We'll keep him in stasis and monitor his neural functions. And, Mixmaster you can top him up with whatever."

Scrapper then spoke up. "Might I suggest a designation of roles?" Hook looked across at him, grateful as always for his team mate's logic and practicality, the reason Scrapper more often functioned as leader of the Constructicons than he, despite Hook's superior processing abilities.

"I suggest that I assist with the surgery and monitor vital signs," Scrapper said. "Bonecrusher and Scavenger can set up all necessary equipment, Mixmaster is in charge of medication, and Longhaul?" He smiled pleasantly at the truck. "You can act as 'gopher'.'

Everyone murmured agreement with this, except of course Longhaul, who rolled his optics. "Typical!" he muttered. But nobody took any notice.

"Very sensible designations," Hook said, pleased with the functionality he'd inspired.

Scrapper got up. "Let's get to work, Constructicons!" he said. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get back to - well - to what we were gonna do!"

...

Hook eyed the data from the inert Combaticon, figures and traces on the screen. A series of steady 'beeps' sounded loudly, but as he watched, the peaks grew further apart and the beeping sounds lowered in tone and slowed.

Scrapper looked at him anxiously. "His vital signs are decreasing!" he said. "Conduit flow's down to forty per cent, energon pump to forty three and dropping!"

A warning buzzer sounded. And then another. "Intakes are failing. Core temperature at thirty per cent below normal, neural output diminished and spark function approaching critical!"

"Yeah!' stammered Mixmaster. " We're g-g-gonna lose him, Hook!"

The medic wasted no time. "OK - connect artificial conduit and air flow, and stimulate neural impulses!" he barked. "Prepare for major diagnostic interface and spark scan!"

Whilst Hook drew out a cable from his wrist and prepared to plug in to Vortex, the others sprang into action. Scrapper and Mixmaster busied themselves with additional connections and tubes , whilst Scavenger and Bonecrusher wheeled into place two more machines and then a second screen. Grabbing a flat looking scanner device from one of the machines, Scavenger lowered it over the copter's chest. An image of Vortex' spark appeared.

"Good work!" Hook grabbed Vortex' wrist, clicking the connection into place. He was in his element; authoritative, confident, and responding to the emergency in exactly the cool fashion he was famous for. And the Constructicons absorbed his enthusiasm, galvanizing into the efficient team which had kept them in favour with Megatron for several million years – even if Devastator was somewhat on the 'back seat' of late.

Mixmaster produced a large syringe attached to an even larger needle. "Here comes neural s-s-stimulant!" he declared, injecting one of the tubes.

The copter's body jerked; once, twice. Then the buzzers ceased and the beeping sounds returned to normal. There was a sigh of relief from Scrapper. "There was a blockage in the upper dorsal conduit but it's gone …" Hook observed. "OK …. good! Systems stabilizing …."

"Flow and intakes are good," Scrapper said. "But how long's that spark gonna behave? Perhaps we oughtta start the scan."

"Hmmnnnn …" Hook squinted at the spark image, whilst analysing the output and trace data inside the copter. "Interesting. No sign of that bullet. OK, initiate scan process and go to 3D!"

He appeared completely cool. Inside, however, the medic could not help from tingling with a delighted curiosity. Vortex' condition was a mystery. Aside from minor dints, he had no external injuries, nothing to indicate that a bullet had struck him at all.

Yet something was causing the spark fluctuations and systems instability. Something unusual - and something which would, as always - when Hook uncovered the truth and saved the copter, as, of course, he would - be yet another superb confirmation of his superior skills, a reason for every Decepticon to defer to the medic, however egotistical and obnoxious they might find him.

It was at times like this that Hook truly loved his job.

….

From the corridor, there came noise; a commotion and loud voices. "SWINDLE!" Onslaught was heard to roar.

Longhaul, who moved instantly over to see what was going on, was knocked flying as the door hissed open and Swindle charged in. "It was an accident!" the smallest Combaticon wailed, rushing over to the medberth.

"Swin!" Brawl barged after him in hot pursuit, closely followed by the furious Combaticon leader. Behind them, the large figure of Blast Off loomed in the doorway.

Equipment was shoved to one side as Swindle forced his way to Vortex's side, his optics widening in horror. "Vortex, wake up!" he bawled, grabbing the copter by the shoulders and shaking him. "I didn't mean to shoot you!"

Connections dislodged and fell out as alarms sounded. "Be careful!" Scrapper shouted as Mixmaster and Bonecrusher echoed his concerns. But Onslaught grabbed Swindle, who clung to the edge of the medberth. There was more scuffling as equipment crashed to the floor. More alarms blared loudly, beeps turning to continuous sounds.

Brawl drew back, hovering. He looked scared, and utterly confused. Onslaught hauled at Swindle. Mixmaster and Scrapper scrabbled to picked up tubes and monitors, and tried to get back in to reconnect them, but the Combaticons were in the way.

"Leave it!" snapped Hook. "Get that screen! And kill those alarms!"

As Mixmaster and Scrapper hauled the rest of the expensive equipment hastily out of the way, Scavenger was wide opticed, staring at Swindle. "Vortex!" Swindle wailed again. "Get away from him!" yelled Onslaught, not letting go.

Hook drew back, folding his arms and retracting the connection. The interruption was irritating, but the copter was, fortunately, stable enough to withstand it, thanks to his team's ministrations – at least for the moment. Hook relaxed a little. He would let the Combaticons have their tirade. There was always an amusing fascination with how nearest and dearest remonstrated their concerns whilst doing their best to inhibit recovery.

And this was quite entertaining. Hook would have thought the Combaticons might be an exception to the general rule, but - apparently - they weren't.

And then, Swindle had let go, and Brawl had grabbed hold of him, but Scavenger had gotten there first and had his arm around the yellow jeep. Onslaught had swept in and was bent over Vortex, his expression pained. "Vortex," he murmured, touching the copter's cheek in a way which surprised Hook. He regarded Onslaught's hand with interest.

The Combaticon leader's expression turned pained. And then, he glared up at Hook. "I want him fixed!" he snarled. "And I want every possibility explored. No stone unturned. _Do I make myself clear?"_

Hook darkened. An entertaining performance was one thing. Ordering him around in his own medbay was another matter altogether. "Of course!" he snapped sarcastically. "But I'm afraid that won't be on the cards if I'm not allowed _do my job!_"

"Vortex!" Swindle was sobbing on Scavenger's shoulder. "Hey – it'll be OK, Swin …" Brawl was trying to say. Onslaught glared at them. He turned back to Vortex, and laid a hand on the copter's helm. His face reflected the same painful torment.

"Constructicons!" Hook snapped. Mixmaster, Bonecrusher and Scrapper swept in and commenced reconnecting tubes. The steady beeping of the monitors started up again.

"Whew – lucky!" Scrapper said. "Output's down again but otherwise no damage done!"

Hook had had enough. "Get them out of here!" he snapped.

"C'mon, guys!" It was Longhaul's voice. Hook thanked the stars for the reliable dump truck – even if he did, as always, hate his designation. Then Scavenger had his arm around the weeping Swindle, and Onslaught was clutching Brawl, and Longhaul was hustling them all back through the door.

"Fix him!" Onslaught yelled over his shoulder. Hook noted that Blast Off had reappeared and was laying a firm hand on the Combaticon leader, before the door hissed shut.

Hook watched them for a moment, still intrigued by the display. So Vortex had been shot by one of his team-mates. And of course, it was Swindle. _How typical,_ Hook thought. He reflected once again on how different the Combaticons might have been if _he_ had been in charge of their programming.

But there was no time to brood on this. Scrapper looked up. "He's fading again, Hook!" he said. "All that shaking – it dislodged the artificial pump, and now toxicity levels are up …." His optics widened as a buzzer rang out. "Down to forty per cent functional capacity …. thirty …. twenty …. stasis lock in T minus forty!"

"Lock that door!" Hook commanded. "And get everything back online! We'll manage without Scavenger, he's better employed out there. Bonecrusher - take over the sparkscan."

As the others complied, Hook flipped his wrist to reveal the connector once more. "OK!" he said, "No more screwing around. Get that scan going and initiate firewall override. I'm going in."

Whatever the ridiculous reason for the copter's demise, Hook still had a job to do.

...

"Ah! There's the little son of a glitch!" Hook said.

"You found it already?" Not more than a breem had passed since Hook had initiated the scan. Not only had he located the bullet, but he appeared, impossibly, to have once more stabilized the copter's vital systems while he was at it. Not that Scrapper was really surprised. The 'genius' reputation wasn't for nothing.

"I've coupled the medical interface with the scanner, so here we have an oblique view of the anterior aspect. Look – see here …." Hook stood back from the medberth, and indicated to the brightly glowing blue spark hologram. Low down was a minute black dot, which would have been barely observable to the untrained optic.

"It's t-t-tiny!" said Mixmaster. Scrapper murmured his concurrence as Bonecrusher joined in.

"Indeed!" Hook agreed. "Whilst I've been prodding around I've done some thinking. I could not see how bullets from a canon the size of Swindle's could fail to leave any external damage. So I performed an analysis of Vortex' own weaponry. It appears he was shot with his own scatter rifle - aimed liberally. All the bullets bounced off – except one, which found a weakness. See here ..."

He indicated to a tiny graze on the copter's chest armour, and then at the hologram, and to another minute dot on the copter's spark casing. "The hole it left was indeed, tiny," Hook explained. "And his self repair had any external damage from it and the other missiles attended to within microseconds. But the pathway this one bullet took was deadly. A weakness in design allowed it to slice straight through the casing and to where you now see it."

Bonecrusher and Mixmaster murmured, obviously amazed yet again at the genius of Devastator's head component. But Scrapper knew there was more to come. A bullet lodged right in the spark? It's extraction was surely questionable.

Scrapper could not help feeling sad – in a way he had been inexplicably inclined to do of late. He, too, had seen Onslaught's expression, seen Swindle's anguish and Brawl's confusion. He'd found himself wanting to fix Vortex – and not just for the sake of Hook's ego or to 'keep in' with Megatron.

"You g-g-gonna open him up-p-p?" Mixmaster asked.

There was silence, but for the beeping and hissing of the machines. Beside them hung the 3D image of Vortex's spark. It seemed to Scrapper like a portent of doom. "We have been fortunate, as I say, from a diagnostic point of view," said Hook. "However, our copter here is unfortunately - _not _so lucky. Any attempt at retrieval of the bullet would certainly kill him. Even were I a spark surgeon – which, extensive though my talents are, I have never pretended to be - the result would be the same."

"We shall keep him – comfortable," Hook went on. "The life support will maintain him. Meanwhile, the bullet will work its way inward. When it reaches the interior chamber, his spark will stop functioning. And I'm afraid," he raised an optic ridge, "that will be _'it!' _Unless we precede those events with deactivation._"_

Hook pulled out the wrist connection, in such a way as to make it clear that his efforts had reached their conclusion. And he had done his job, Scrapper thought. There would be no remonstrations. Everyone knew how rare such a situation as this was, but how impossible it was to fix. Hook would be praised for discovering the cause of Vortex' demise – and for making his passage to the next world expedient. If there was a 'next world' for Decepticon copters.

The others murmured. "Too bad …" Bonecrusher shook his head. "Good lookin' son of a glitch. What a waste!"

"Its not our f-f-fault is it?" asked Mixmaster.

"Hook regarded the inert form. "Of course not," he said. "It's Onslaught's. If he had done just a little more work on making his team at least sufficiently functional that they wouldn't shoot each other, this wouldn't have happened!"

Scrapper felt numb. Hook was right, but it still saddened him. He imagined how it would be if it were Hook on the table and him about to be bereaved. He could hardly bear to think of it.

But there was no time for regret and speculation. Pragmatism was called for.

Activating his comm, Scrapper relayed the information to Longhaul. .::You need to break the news,::. he said. .::Tell Onslaught he needs to make a decision as to whether to let him die or to ….::. he hesitated, .::to disconnect Vortex.::.

.::Tell Scavenger to take Swindle somewhere else,::. he added.

The response was entirely expected. .::Why does it always have to be me?::. grumbled the truck. But Scrapper wasn't listening. He was suddenly feeling better. For he had an idea.

...

"I refuse to believe there is nothing which can be done!" roared Onslaught , as Brawl 's face behind him was a picture of shocked disbelief and non comprehension. Even Blast Off looked noticeably upset.

"I'm sorry," Hook said. "It's my experience that being shot at point blank range in the chest can have somewhat fatal results. Effective when it comes to enemy eradication. A shame when it kills off ones' team!"

Scrapper winced. That was exactly the kind of statement which got Hook his 'other' reputation. And it was unhelpful. Onslaught was no fool. And the rest were unstable and violent. They could turn on him and Hook just as easily as on Swindle.

But evidently it was the yellow Combaticon, and not the Constructicons, who were now in the firing line. Onslaught was pacing, his fists clenched. "Swindle!' he snarled. "When I get my hands on that treacherous fiend, there will be no mercy this time!"

From the chair in the corner, Brawl began to whimper. "He didn't mean it!" he stammered. His optics were unfocused, and Scrapper thought his face looked dim; faded, somehow. "He didn't think Vortex would mind him using that gun!" But Blast Off 'huffed' disdainfully. "Just like he didn't mean to redesignate us to the scrap heap?" he said bitterly.

Onslaught, who had paused to stare at them, nodded. "Precisely Blast off!" he growled. "It's all part of his plot to go it alone! Well seeing as how we'll be disbanded as a gestalt no doubt there is no reason for us to any longer consider his continuation! Which will be so I presume?"

He looked questionably at Hook, who was now watching the performance with arms folded, a look of faint amusement on his face. The medic shrugged. "You will have to ask Megatron about that!" he said.

Onslaught shot Hook a look which restored all Scrapper's previous fears. He hoped Scavenger had done as he suggested and taken Swindle to the basement. Yes, it was time to make _the suggestion._ Even though Hook was not going to like it.

"Where _is _Swindle, anyway?" Onslaught was saying. He darkened. "If I find out he's hiding here somewhere I will level this place and everything in it!"

Hook smirked. He went to say something. But Scrapper cut in first. "Actually," he said, "there is one _other_ possibility. As regards Vortex, I mean."

And now, everyone was looking at him. Including Hook. The medic looked – surprised. And then a suspicious, questioning frown appeared on his faceplates.

"It's – uh – something perhaps a little unorthodox," Scrapper said. And although unable to send precise words across the gestalt bond, was nevertheless able to convey a small smidgen of what he had in mind.

Hook's frown deepened. And then, his optics widened. "Oh no!" he said. "Oh no. NO! _Absolutely not! NEVER!"_

Brawl sat up. Onslaught and Blast Off looked at each other, and then at Scrapper. "What?" roared the Combaticon leader.

Hook looked at Scrapper as though his team mate had just suggested his murder. "He thinks an AUTOBOT can succeed where I have FAILED!" he spat out.

...

"Look – you have to see how much you just _ruined _everything!" Hook was raging. "You know yourself - Bruticus is a pain in the posterior. He takes up all Megatron's attention – and he isn't even any good! And _they're _useless. They argue, they fight, they frag in public, they stir up trouble at every Primus damned opportunity and sell each other out. And now - they go around shooting each other! While _we're _relegated to building bases for them on islands!"

Scrapper said nothing, instead folding his arms and perching on the back of the chair. This wasn't unexpected. He did not, in fact, disagree with it all. But Hook had to see the 'bigger picture. And long experience told Scrapper it was better to let Hook rant – first.

"I had to try and fix Vortex," Hook went on. "We all know that! But seeing as how I couldn't, I was _quite happy_ to leave things as they were, Scrapper! They get decommissioned, deactivated, sent back to Cybertron or to some far reach of the galaxy, _whatever!_ But we did our job! "

"And then, for the first time in months," he went on, "we had some hope of restoring Devastator's esteem." He turned angrily on his team mate. "But no! And not only did you have to go and_ ruin_ all that with this – suggestion, you had to _humiliate _me in the process!"

"Well it was you who mentioned …" Scrapper attempted.

"FIRST AID?" the medic threw his hands in the air. "I'd rather jump in a smelting pit than call HIM in!"

"Not that he'll succeed, in all probability!" he scoffed. "But then Megatron's gonna want to know why _I _couldn't handle whatever he's gonna do myself!"

Scrapper decided it was time for some of his famous common sense. And the big picture. And, of course, an appeal to Hook's ego. After.

"Megatron wants Bruticus operational," he said. "You said yourself you're not a spark expert - but you're still the Decepticon medic. It's customary to call in other medical opinions on specialist subjects. And First Aid? Well – he does know about sparks. Megatron is hardly gonna be amused if he finds out Vortex could have been saved."

Hook glowered at the words. _"A spark expert!"_ he snarled. "Airy fairy, unscientific claptrap!"

Scrapper got up. "Look …" he said, "I know Megatron relegated us to a backseat, doing scrappy jobs instead of fighting Dinobots. But there's a truce on right now - Devastator _will _be needed again. Trust me!"

He moved closer, and laid a hand on his team-mate's arm. "Besides – haven't you thought – if First Aid fails, you can _blame _him. If he doesn't, then you can make out _you _saved Vortex. If Megatron sees that you managed that – _especially_ in the face of a disaster caused by incompetent programming - there's every chance Bruticus' programming will get handed back to you."

Hook calmed slightly, and Scrapper knew he was getting through. His finger traced up and down the green metal arm. "Then you'll get the credit for Bruticus being a lethal fighting machine," he said softly. "_And_ we can keep him where we want him as far as Devastator's concerned!" His voice lowered. "Don't tell me that before you realized where that bullet was, and you thought a heroic salvation was in order, that the thought didn't cross your mind? This is simply – a different way of getting the same result."

Hook grunted. A disgruntled, but resigned look came over him. Encouraged, Scrapper went on. "There is also the matter of our own gestalt," he said. "You heard Onslaught? If Vortex dies, you know what's gonna happen to Swindle." He hesitated. "And you also know Scavenger has developed - an 'attachment' to Swindle. I don't think he could handle life without him."

Hook snorted. "I always did say his tastes were questionable!" he growled. "But I suppose you have a point!" He perched on the back of the chair, his arms folded as a scowl deepened on his face. Scrapper knew he hadn't quite won yet. Although he was doing well.

There was a long silence. "There is something else, of course," Hook snapped.

Scrapper raised an optic ridge. "And that is?" he said. Although he knew very well.

Hook was quiet for a moment, and Scrapper saw that he bit his lip – something he had not done for a long time, but which indicated deep consternation. "It's him!" Hook ground out. "If it was Ratchet, that might be different. But HIM …."

Then he was up, and pacing, furiously, again. "You know what he's like!" he raged. "And you know he won't have changed! He'll bounce in here and start dishing out orders. Proceed to make out he's performing miracles. He'll be all _cute _and _competent_ about everything. And then - there'll be all that _stuff _about healing and wholeness and caring!" Hook threw his hands in the air. "Its – insufferable! And_ I'll_ be tainted with the nonsense!"

Scrapper had to admit Hook's evaluation of First Aid's likely behaviour was spot on. And he did not, of course, care for the Autobot medic at all – for entirely different reasons. Hook knew it too – but Scrapper was not about to say so. They had to get over this 'final hurdle.'

"I doubt Onslaught will be paying much attention - to all that," he said. "Or anyone else. And remember what I said? It's a means to an end. Once he's done _whatever,_ First Aid can go back from whence he came. _You_ will be the one they applaud."

Hook nodded. But it was not the end of the matter, and Scrapper knew it. The medic stopped on the other side of the room with his back to Scrapper. His shoulders hunched. "It's not just that!" he said.

It was quiet again. The special closeness Scrapper shared with Hook pulsed strongly. In the distance, he heard Onslaught's voice raised again, and Swindle's name. He shivered, reminded that whatever he might have just said to Hook, the fact remained – he didn't want Vortex to die; could not bear to watch the suffering, the agony of the severed bonds. It had been bad enough in their gestalt contending with – one broken sparkbond.

Scrapper looked at Hook, and his spark ached with emotion. Hook may be obnoxious and ego-driven, but what Scrapper felt for him was special, precious; and nobody but Scrapper knew Hook's vulnerabilities, knew what he had gone through, how fragile he could be. Anger towards the Autobot medic flared in a strong wave of protectiveness. But Scrapper determined to stick to his guns.

Besides, First Aid _owed _Hook. Hook had taught First Aid everything he knew. It was about time the little smart aft paid for his own esteemed career.

A shudder went through Hook. Walking over, Scrapper put an arm gently around him. "You can do this, Hook." He said. "You severed the bond. This is not about what went on with you and him. It's about our own preservation - and the future of the Decepticons."

Hook's hook clanged against Scrapper's arm. The medic nodded. Scrapper squeezed his team mate, and planted a kiss on his shoulder. "You know you're much, much better than he'll ever be!" he whispered.

But at that, a change came over Hook. The mood seemed to lighten. He looked up at Scrapper, a reproachful smile appearing on his faceplates. "Scrapper," he said, "Be reasonable. I may not think of everything. But I do know _THAT!"_

...

"Do you want me to call him?" Scrapper asked.

"No!" Hook snapped. "I'll do it!"

Scrapper sat on the edge of the chair as Hook activated the comline. With a sour expression, the medic punched in 'Protectobots HQ.'

.::Streetwise at your service!::. a voice answered immediately. .::Do you require security, fire services, transport or medical care?::.

The voice was bursting with ghastly enthusiasm, youthful and hideously cheerful. Everything in Hook compelled him to tell the surveillance car - or whatever the frag he was - exactly what he could do with his services, and that he'd made a ridiculous mistake, and hang up. But Scrapper's words were in his processor, his team mate a calm pillar of strength on the chair opposite. .::None of those!::. he said tersely.

.::Oh!::. Said the voice. .::Well maybe I should connect you to our leader, Hotspot? He'll be happy to sort out your needs!::.

Shuttering his optics, the Decepticon medic summoned a voice which he hoped would convey the absolute lack of 'needs' to be sorted by the Protectobot leader in any way, shape or form – and his absolute superiority to anyone in that ridiculous, soppy joke of a gestalt.

.::I want to speak to First Aid!::. he said. .::Tell him ... ::. he paused, taking a deep intake..::Tell him his _ex spark mate_ wishes to speak to him. Tell him … ::. Hook gritted his denta, .::that its urgent. And tell him ... _Oh Primus, did he really have to utter the insufferable?_ .::That I need – _his advice!::._

There was a silence. .::uh - yeah!::. said the voice. .::Right-on! Hang five::.

_I'll bet there's some things you don't know about your medic!_ Hook thought. And right then, it was the only factor in the whole miserable caper which gave him the slightest satisfaction._  
><em>

…..

Thanks for reading. First Aid POV soon!

_TBC!_


	2. Chapter 2

**~~The Spark Transplant~~**

**By Ayngel**

* * *

><p><strong>*Warnings:* <strong>None in this chapter. Later, heavier smex of the sticky, p&p and spark variety. Medical procedures and near death.

_**Disclaimer:**__ Dream though I might, I still don't own Transformers or make any money from this._

**Continuity:** G1

**Plot:** When Vortex suffers an irreparable injury to the spark and Hook can't fix him, a spark expert is called in from the Autobot ranks.

**Characters:** Hook and all the Constructicons, First Aid and the Protectobots, The Combaticons.

**Notes:-**

Sorry this chapter was long in coming. It turned out to need some background. I prefer the Protectobots several million years old and coming together in the same way the Combaticons did – as opposed to about two months old and created on Earth – but it did mean some extra thought!

I must explain also: I always wondered where Kup, Roddy and the others were whilst Optimus, Megatron etc. were all entombed on Earth (and after that) I decided they were on Chaar, Kup having moved there some time during a lull in the war when he decided the Quintessons and other aliens were a threat and he was better deployed there. "Somethin' wipes us out, it won't matter who wins the war."

Kup took a contingent with him. And there they stayed, for a very long time. Until Chaar was attacked and they returned to Cybertron after Season 2. Which is why it was a burned out, deserted wreck in Season 3! Kup and co were still there at the start of this story.

Anyway, here's Hotspot's POV with First Aid's forthcoming 'ordeal.' And some other drama and stuff of interest before the operation.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_**Chaar, One Earth year previously ….**_

Hot Spot watched as the great shuttle, Skylinx, pulled into the docking bay of the spaceport at the Chaar military base. A wave of longing assaulted him. It had been so, so long since he had seen First Aid. He had thought this moment would never arrive.

Yet beneath the excitement, the fire fighter's nervous relays jangled with uncertainty. On the one hand, he was certain nothing would have changed; after all had they not parted before and come back together, only to have simply 'taken on where they left off' and to find their friendship stronger, if anything, than before?

On the other hand, First Aid could be unpredictable. Distant, hard to fathom, and even harder to convince. Particularly when he'd done medical wonders in some far flung place he'd had to leave prematurely. And the big question was, having been dragged away from wherever he was this time, and whatever social injustice he was fighting, was he _old friend_ enough to go for _The Plan?_

As Skylinx' ramp extended and the first few passengers emerged, Hot Spot thought of the desperate expression on the Prime's face at their meeting on the Ark last orn, the obvious tiredness and despondency of the Autobots who had been on Earth. _ My troops need a break from tending to the humans, _he had said. _ But that does not mean that the welfare of this sentient race is not paramount. _ _I trust you to gather the very best team for this crucial task. I know I can depend on you …._

And First Aid was, without question, the_ very _best of the best when it came to 'tending' sentient beings. Undoubtedly, he would absorb the account of the human predicament with rapt attention. Yet, Hotspot reflected again, you just never knew. If Aid had made plans on some impoverished outpost he regarded as of higher priority, then the new would be leader of the 'Protectobots' – as Prime had said they would be called – may be destined for a stern lecture, a reminder about priorities and a hunt for another medic.

And that was without the 'other' complications. But Hotspot didn't even want to think of those right now.

A familiar red and white form appeared at the top of the ramp, and anything but sheer joy vanished from Hotspot's processor. His spark flared warmly as First Aid paused, looking around, carefully taking in the surroundings as he always did and sampling the clear air. Hot Spot waved frantically and started towards him, ignoring admonishing remarks from the security guards.

First Aid merely gave a little smile before heading down the ramp.; and whilst Hotspot was overwhelmed, as he drew near, with a desire to pull his old friend into his arms, consuming him with a demonstration of all he had missed for the last few hundred thousand vorns, First Aid's whole demeanour told him this was out of the question.

No, not much had changed. And _The Plan_ was very much up in the air.

"It's good to see you!" was all the medic said, before a brief and decidedly passion-less hug. But the way he headed briskly off towards the mess also told Hotspot that First Aid was in the mood for business. And that _did _augur well for _The Plan._

…..

Later, they sat in the mess at Chaar's barracks, watching a team of rotaries practice mock stealth attacks on a grounder team. The grim figure of the veteran, Kup, was in full view, hands on hips, roaring orders as the recruits sped past. Every now and then, his yelled commands penetrated the mess walls, along with the roar of engines and rotors. But the patrons within were too used to it all to pay any real attention.

"This 'outfit,' the Prime wants," First Aid said, taking a dainty sip from his cube of distilled medium grade. "Am I to understand that it is purely to look after these organic creatures? No fighting?"

"That's the idea," Hotspot said. "When I was asked to pick a medic, I thought of you because of your experience with organics, although," he lowered his optics, "you know I would have looked for a reason for it to be you, anyway."

First Aid smiled shyly. "Is that so?" he said. Then he raised an optic ridge. "And what else?"

Hot Spot took a bigger drink of his very decidedly high grade cocktail. He had known this would be the tricky part. Well, _a _tricky part. The _really_ tricky part was yet to come. "I have to be honest. The war continues, and whilst Cybertron has an 'arrangement' between Elita and Shockwave, it is fragile, and relations on Earth between the Prime and Megatron are at an all time low. We would sometimes be fixing the results of their hostilities and …" he sighed. "Possibly called into combat ourselves."

First Aid stiffened, his disapproval obvious. Hot Spot's spark sank. "Although I'm assured that's a last resort," he finished quickly.

But to his surprise, Hot Spot wasn't informed, in no uncertain terms, that First Aid's part in the mission was 'off.' Instead, the medic smiled grimly. "I have learned from my travels that, unfortunately, war is not uncommon," he said. "And I accept it better than I used to, although I still don't agree with it, and certainly not with its necessity to 'strengthen races' - which as, you know, some who I have worked with have believed …." He paused. "Sometimes, however, it is necessary to resolve conflicts and move on."

Hot Spot's spark swelled with relief.

"It is not my role to pick sides," First Aid went on. "My duty is to preserve those who suffer and maintain their health. Sometimes - just sometimes - if one side favours a more peaceful resolution , I will favour their interests and support that side. But that is a last resort – and ends as soon as it is no longer necessary to adopt that position."

"Right!" Hot Spot said, encouraged in spite of the some what despondent note in his friend's voice. "Well that, I am assured, is the situation here."

Shouting, and the _thwop thwop_ of rotors close to the window were followed by a mild explosion as the marauding rotaries evidently succeeded in hitting their target. First Aid watched as a red and white one wheeled over the mock bombsite in an obvious display of showing off. Another larger green colleague ushered him away from the glowering figure on the ground.

First Aid looked at them long and hard. Then he turned to Hot Spot with very blue optics. "The priority will still be the humans," he said. "My concern is that you've picked members for this team who may struggle with this. I'm not talking about Groove, obviously, who for eons has been of the same mind as I. But that youngster out there - Blades - and the grounder, Streetwise. They strike me as – belligerent. Do you really think they are capable of - _restraint?"_

Hot Spot nodded, watching the two rotaries fly off as Kup remostrated with the ground team, obviously deficient in allowing the 'attack' to succeed. "An understandable concern," he said. "But they've been here a while. I know there hasn't been the open conflict with the Quintessons that Kup and Magnus expected, but there have been skirmishes on outposts. Sharkticon antics - that kind of thing. They've had a chance to fight. They are keen, now, to exercise their protective roles. I think under my guidance they are manageable."

First Aid raised an optic ridge. He looked far from convinced. "I suppose that if we are required to fight, then sending them in will spare me the indignity," he said. "That rotary obviously finds it to his liking," he took a drink, the shadow of a smile crossing his faceplates. "They do, as a rule. It is hard to overcome that tendency."

The fire engine smiled. "I hoped you would see it that way," he said.

There was silence as the sounds of the mess tinkled around them. Hot Spot took a deep breath. For now came the really tricky part. "Of course – when we're acting as a gestalt, it won't be possible to differentiate," he said. "Between who's keen on fighting and who isn't, I mean."

First Aid's hand froze midway in putting his drink down on the table. There was a silence so palpable that Hot Spot was certain if he reached his hand out then strands of ice cold silence filament would wrap around it. Then the blue optics were upon him, more piercing than he'd ever seen them before.

"When we're acting as a _what_?" First Aid said.

…

_**Earth, 1986, Protectobot Base, Earth**_

Now, as he watched First Aid packing equipment neatly into white boxes, Hot Spot thought of that conversation on Chaar, and his spark sank. He had doubted often, since their arrival on Earth, about talking First Aid into this whole thing. And now, this? Hot Spot could only shudder with dread at the thought of what awaited his friend.

For it had been hard, adapting to Earth, to the city, to the base. The planet was different, challenging; nothing like what all but First Aid and Groove had ever experienced. But that was the least of their concerns. Far worse was the fact that, no matter how nice the other Autobots tried to be, or how much 'bonhomie' issued forth, they had failed to conceal their resentment. And Hotspot knew, all too well, that the reason was simple: they suspected Prime had called his team in to make up for the others' inadequacies.

It seemed no amount of praise and deference would stop Ratchet's sniping, or Inferno's jealousy, or Prowl and Ironhide's constant disapproval of Blades and Streetwise. Or the 'atmosphere' Hot Spot could feel every day surrounding the 'special' treatment the Protectobots had received in getting their own base.

Indeed, the only ones who appeared unconcerned were the Aerialbots, who genuinely liked them. But even then, there had been that 'incident' with Slingshot which had gotten Blades and Streetwise locked up, the snickers from the others, the feeling that they all felt the petulant flier deserved it, but had not spoken up, only too happy to observe the discomfort of the even more recalcitrant newcomers.

Hotspot watched as First Aid lowered the lid on the impeccably packed medical equipment in the first box, and clicked it shut. So amazingly tenacious, First Aid had been here, sticking to human medicine, learning from human doctors and allowing the worn out and grouchy Ratchet every kudos with his own kind – even if sometimes they did seek First Aid out, secretly, because they liked his methods. And through it all, First Aid had forged on, somehow finding time to get their own gestalt functional – even though it was hardly his field.

And functional Defensor was – so much so that Hot shot had thought, perhaps, that things were getting a little easier, especially since Defensor had floored Bruticus, with the amazing additional factor that it was First Aid's fist which had done the damage. Now, however, amid disappointment that the Combaticons hadn't ceased to exist, there was _this._ And that disappointment - outrage, even - was only one of a number of good reasons why trying to fix Vortex was a really, _really, BAD_ idea.

The door hissed open, then, and Groove appeared. "You gonna be long?" his gentle optics regarded First Aid with almost as much concern as Hot Spot felt. "It's just that Skyfire don't wanna be too long. He's twitchy about the cargo."

It was some comfort, Hot Spot supposed, that Groove was going too. Although if neither came back …. Hotspot didn't want to think about that. First Aid looked across crisply. "The cargo will be fine, you can assure him. Just make sure it is secured well. I will be along shortly."

Hotspot heard thinly disguised strain in his voice. And he could not help it, anger surged through him. First Aid was trying to prove his worth! To the Autobots, who had made him feel like this. And, even more so - yes, Hotspot darkened further at what he knew, had become evident was the far more detestable reason, the thing which had compounded even further their troubles here_ - The Decepticon gestalt._ Or, rather - the other Decepticon – _medic._

Hot Spot thought of the pull from the old bond, the random seething desires, the raging emotions he could feel every time they combined; and the sure knowledge that – without a doubt – First Aid's 'performance' within Defensor had been driven, not by hostility towards Bruticus, but by a bizarre and spark driven revenge for Bruticus' previous attack on Devastator.

"You don't have to do this!" he burst out, aware that he said this for about the fifth time. "You don't have to prove anything to him!"

First Aid clicked the second case shut. He looked reproachfully across. "Hot Spot as I have told you, I have a patient to treat. What Hook may or may not think of my performance is entirely beside the point!" He looked at the two locked boxes. "Now – are you going to help me with these, or do I have to call Streetwise in?"

It was entirely the point, the Fire Engine thought bitterly. He let out a discontented sigh. "I'll help you," he said. Not even bothering to transform, he stacked the boxes and picked them up, trudging out of the door.

…

As they walked to Skyfire, Hot Spot found his own emotions seething again. "You know, Vortex really is the _worst_ kind of Decepticon," he blurted out. "One who actually enjoys maiming and killing. Somebody so at odds with your ethos First Aid, that why you should help him at all is beyond comprehension!"

First Aid stiffened reproachfully. "That sort of argument will not wash, Hot Spot!" he said. "And you know it. Vortex is a patient! With a fixable ailment. Although I have been swayed towards the Autobots in this conflict, my medical coding forbids me to differentiate. I intend to fix it!"

"Yeah well, when he comes round, he might not be too receptive to his 'healer,'" Hotspot grumbled. "His team tended up in a crumpled heap because of you, then nearly got deactivated. I gather he's not too benevolent to mechs who frag him around. You heard what he did to Swindle. And that's one of theirs!"

"It was not I who 'fragged him around' but Defensor," First Aid said. "The entity you insisted I participate in, even though my attitude to the subject was perfectly clear. We simply did our duty. That said, if Vortex becomes difficult on that account I shall deal with it. _If_ he makes it, which – if what you have been telling me all morning is correct - he won't."

They had arrived at Skyfire's ramp. Pausing, Hot Spot looked exasperatedly at his friend. "Yeah – well that's right!" he said. "You don't even know if this will work. It's never been tried in an organic environment. And its _never_ been tried by you, First Aid!"

But First Aid's face set in an indignant mask. "I've observed quite a few spark transplants, Hotspot! I intend this to work. I'd be grateful if you didn't question my abilities! I've had quite enough of that lately."

Groove appeared, then, and took the topmost box without a word, disappearing up the ramp. Hotspot put down the rest of the pile. First Aid went to take the next, but Hotspot put a hand on his shoulder. It was worth cutting to the chase. "Look, I know you've had a hard time," he said. "I also know – because I know you First Aid – that you're disappointed because Hook hasn't been more – cordial. But you know what he's like! And he was like it even before he became a Con!"

There was a silence. Hot Spot knew he had gone too far. But First Aid did not storm off as he had expected. Instead, he stood up. "All right, if you must know - there are rumours!" he said. "That crane, the orange one, Grapple. He's still got the thing for Scrapper. And they talk!"

He folded his arms indignantly. "Everyone thinks Hook taught me everything I know, that our gestalt only functions because of his defacto expertise …"

Hotspot felt bleakly triumphant. "So it_ is_ about him!"

"It is first and foremost about my patient! And second, for us too. It is my chance to demonstrate my abilities to everyone on this planet - so the humans can be confident in our abilities and the Protectobots can walk tall!" First Aid's optics took on a determined glitter. "Hook's useless with sparks!" he whispered. "He doesn't understand them. And he thinks spark therapy is a load of claptrap. Everybody also knows that he knows nothing about them! It will not be possible, after this, for people to think he taught me!"

His worst fears confirmed, Hotspot strengthened his grip. "Aid, you don't have to…"

For a moment, a terrible anguish flickered in First Aid's optics. "I do," he whispered. "I must do this, and then fix my own spark, otherwise we will never …."

But a rumble came from the shuttle then, just as Groove returned. "Would you two be so kind as to finish loading and strap in?" said Skyfire's gentle, polite voice. "I would like to be at this island base by nightfall. And I'm informed also that whilst the Decepticon copter is stable for now, he is not expected to remain so for long."

"Indeed!" First Aid's efficient medical functionality mode was back. "Give me a hand with these, Hotspot, would you please?"

Wearily, Hotspot took the rest of the boxes on board and secured them in the hold.

…

_**The island base of the Decepticon gestalts, somewhere in the Pacific.**_

A swishing sounded, interrupted by the whir and peeping of the machines and odd clank of the metal bucket as Longhaul painstakingly washed the medbay floor. His hangdog expression more than conveyed his sentiments, that yet another burden had been placed upon him, one much more onerous than anything else so far. Scrapper ignored it, far more concerned by the unconscious copter on the operating table and the agitated Combaticon leader at his side.

Vortex' intakes sighed in rhythm. Scrapper was struck once again by how unblemished he was; how perfect, and how he looked, to all intents and purposes, as though he were simply in recharge. Beside him, Onslaught shifted impatiently, as Mixmaster added a green liquid to a feeder line which entered Vortex' arm conduit.

Scrapper found himself surprisingly sentimental, once again, at Onslaught's obvious distress. He knew another outburst was coming. If only Hook had hung around just for a little while before taking off with Bombshell ...

Scrapper supposed he should be thankful that Hook had at least - reluctantly - agreed to the procedure. But it wasn't enough. Hook needed to assist with the operation. Onslaught would likely blow a gasket if he didn't. And it would be disastrous if it succeeded and First Aid got the credit.

Besides, Onslaught was asking too many awkward questions. He turned to Scrapper now. "D'you think he could still be saved without this? He's looking better!" he exclaimed.

Mixmaster looked up from tinkering with the conduit. "Yeah!" he cackled. "Right as rain! I've b-bunged in a sp-p-spark expander which has increased function! And it's st-t-stopped the b-bullet in its tracks!"

Onslaught's relief was almost palpable. "Well there you are then! You can call off this Autobot nonsense! Sounds he could survive without the surgery!"

Scrapper found his spark aching. He thought of the fondness he had for his own team, the attachment he felt for them of the anguish he would feel, later, at the raising of expectations which proved futile. But, as was so typical of late, he found himself unable to send more than a reproachful glimmer in Mixmaster's direction. He hoped First Aid would hurry up.

"Not exactly," he said. "What Mixmaster has done will be a temporary measure. It will keep Vortex going until – until the surgeon gets here."

Graunching sounds came as Longhaul moved furniture to wash underneath. Onslaught looked cross again. "And how long will that be?" he snapped.

"He's on his way now. In an express shuttle."

Onslaught grunted. "Should have gotten Blast Off to go and get him," he muttered. "I shouldn't have taken any scrap about non Combaticons in the cockpit. Pitspawned gestalts!" he glared at the three Constructicons. "Well don't look like that! You weren't programmed by a half insane Seeker!"

Longhaul's face darkened. "You ain't saddled with bein' programmed a gestalt's gopher!" he complained.

"Yeah!" said Mixmaster "Poor old Longie!" Although he sounded anything but sorry. "But hey! You gonna let little cutie-bot m-medic inside Vortex's inner workings. Could be the start of a whole new ph-ph –phase!"

Scrapper wished he could somehow deactivate their voices. "If you think I'm gonna have some woosy Autobot poking in our programming, forget it!" Onslaught exploded. "He fixes the spark, then he frags off. If I let him live. Understand?"

Scrapper wondered if Hook was talking to Bombshell, right now, about assuming control of the Combaticon programming; if that was what the deal with the insecticon was about, and what Onslaught would say if he knew. But he didn't have time to think about it. The leader was glaring at him, his red optics like coals. "So where's this spark coming from? I take it they don't just sprout from the ground!"

Mixmaster cackled again at that. "H-hey – fresh picked from outside o'the Ark this morning!"

Onslaught shot him a furious glance. "If I find out you're thinking of actually PLANTING some Autobot spark in Vortex then you'll be sorry for that, mixer …."

Mixmaster shrugged, and opened his mouth to speak. But Scrapper cut in. "Let's not jump the gun, shall we?" he said, thinking he sounded condescending, and like Hook, although he really was not trying to be. "It will be of the surgeon's choosing. I believe the identity of the spark's previous owner is largely irrelevant – although there has to be some compatibility."

Onslaught started to pace. "I want a full run down before he starts. D'you understand. If I don't give the nod, the spark stays in the box, got it?"

Maybe after all, thought Scrapper, would save a lot of trouble. "I'm sure the identity will be revealed, and everything will be explained," he said.

There was silence. His task complete, Longhaul picked up his mop and bucket and exited. Mixmaster hummed softly, against the backdrop of the machines and the copter's hissing intakes. Onslaught crossed to Vortex and then was looking at him again, his face soft. But then his optics narrowed.

"If this doesn't work, then Swindle is going to wish he had never been created. He will have _me_ to administer his punishment this time!"

His head snapped up. And then, he asked _that question_ again, the one he'd asked at least five times already. "And where IS Swindle?"

"I don't know," Scrapper answered. And that was the truth.

….

Fetching some high grade from his not so secret stash, Scavenger looked with dismay at the despondent Swindle, who sat on the edge of the berth, tears still streaking his face and his optics dull. He shivered every so often. Scavenger put down the grade and went to another compartment next to the firmly locked door, rummaging for a space blanket among the diverse collection of other paraphernalia inside.

The more upset Swindle got, the more profoundly annoyed Scavenger became. He thought of how captivated he'd been at his first even sighting of the Combaticon, how hard he'd had to work to become friends with him, and how different it should be now. They should be laughing and joking, going out to fossick for more 'collectables' at the beach, not him sitting here like a shivering wreck.

And it was all their fault! As Scavenger returned to the berth and draped the blanket gently around Swindle's shoulders, arranging it carefully over the tyres, a spiteful satisfaction at he 'little problems' he'd caused filled his processor. That trench Onslaught had blundered into which had accidentally not been quite covered up; the tank's tantrum over his missing canon which for some inexplicable reason was sitting among Scavenger's 'collectables and, of course – the best one of all - the loose boulder at the edge of the quarry which had somehow toppled and fallen, landing on the Blast Off and Vortex as they 'did things' at the bottom.

They deserved it. For how they'd been to Swindle.

"I don't care that he got shot!" the Constructicon said as he returned to fetch the energon. "And frankly, I won't be sorry if he doesn't make it!"

But Swindle's mouth only turned down more at the corners. "I'm still tied to him," he said. "And its awful, him like this. It's like a great blank _nothing._ You know how it is, Scav."

Scavenger did. Various of his team members had been at near death enough times over the eons, and wouldn't be here at all had they not had Hook on hand. He cursed, not for the first time, the fact that Swindle was also part of a gestalt. But maybe, now, he would not be for long. Not this gestalt, anyway.

"But it's not the point!" Swindle went on, his voice wavering. "It really was an accident!" His hands shook as he took the cube. He sipped on it.

Scavenger sat down next to him. He thought back to earlier in the day, to the exercise with the Stunticons which had gotten outta hand, to when Motormaster knocked Brawl unconscious at the training ground perimeter, and Blast Off took off for this clear decoy. It had left only Vortex and Onslaught to take on the whole Stunticon contingent - led by a gleeful Mixmaster - who had been plotting the Combaticon demise ever since their arrival on Earth.

And Swindle had leaped up from the scouting position and grabbed the rifle from the cache of weapons Vortex had left him to guard. Scavenger had seen Swindle struggle with the rifle, bullets erupting in a spray around all of them. Nonetheless, the Stunticons had retreated, just as the furious shuttle returned in a strafing run over the hastily fleeing cars.

But any contribution Swindle may have made had been forgotten in the subsequent mayhem with the copter unconscious on the ground and Onslaught yelling loud enough to be heard on Cybertron "How dare you disobey my orders! I told you to _stay where you were!"_

"Swindle I was there, OK?" Scavenger said. "If Vortex doesn't make it, you got me as a witness. I _know_ you were trying to help!"

"It won't make any difference," Swindle muttered. "I think Onslaught even _knows_ I didn't mean it. But Vortex said not to touch that rifle. They'll use this as an excuse to get rid of me. Once and for all."

Scavenger put his arm around the jeep. "Look … Boney saw it too." It had been Bonecrusher who alerted Hook. Scavenger reflected that he wouldn't have bothered.

But Swindle shook his head. "I told you Scav, when we got put away - back before the war - they still think it was me who turned them in. And I know that seems like eons ago – but it kinda isn't to Onslaught. To him its like – yesterday. That's why they've given me such a hard time here and that's why …" he hesitated, "that's why I took certain _advice _and tried to decommission them, even though I was never gonna do that in the first place. It just seemed - hopeless."

Scavenger pulled Swindle closer. He had said several times before how he didn't blame Swindle over the spare parts episode - would have _helped _him if he'd known what was going on. Whoever had 'advised' Swindle – a fact he seemed reluctant to disclose – had their head screwed on.

Scavenger's hand slid up and down the Combaticon's arm. The spaceblanket made a soft, crinkly sound. "All the spare parts did was make matters a thousand times worse," Swindle said miserably. "It's been hell ever since – you know that, Scav. This is the end of the line."

"But you didn't do that either, did you? Turn them in, I mean."

Swindle sighed. "Like I said, Scav, I dunno. There's a great hole in their databanks from around that time, just as there's one in mine. I don't think so. But when I tell them I didn't do it – I don't even know if its true."

His voice trailed off weakly and he put his head on Scavenger's shoulder and allowed the Constructicon to comfort him. Scavenger held him close, his lips on the top of the dark helm. He decided it was time, high time, that he suggested _the thing_ he'd been wanting to suggest for quite a long time now. The thing which would get Swindle back to his old self – and not be this miserable wreck. Not to mention being - well - kinda _with him._

"What happened, happened because you don't need them," he said. "There's other ways."

When Swindle spoke again his voice was a bare whisper. "I didn't want there to be other ways," he said. "I realized after that – I wanted to be in the gestalt."

Scavenger kissed him tenderly on the helm, his lips lingering. "You can be in a gestalt," he said. "You can be one of us. You can become - a Constructicon."

….

Thank you for reading :-) TBC


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